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by EmmanuelleG
Summary: Set after the book's end.Christine is no de Chagny and the family ring around her finger is nothing.  "I thought  betrayal hurt the most-no,false dreams do. She hadn't come back to me; it was guilt that made her. Ah, but outcomes can be altered."
1. Chapter 1

I need variety ! Like everyone else XD. I never really wrote a fic in the Phantom original universe and time. So here's my "first" try at it. I like it very much…but then again it can be bad. We'll see.

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**Chapter 1**

I couldn't be certain which of the two was more painful; starving or dying. Though if one of them was overlooked it became obvious that both had the same base and as logic wanted, end. I had been subject to unbearable heat and days of physical agony but nothingness surpassed them all. If then I could at least think – dare I say hope – of something brighter, not better but brighter, now I was left with only blackness. There was no 'good' for, there never had been. Only slight contentment that I had found under the Opera House. In this nothingness that I floated there was no light – never before had it bothered me but all of the sudden, since Christine left, and therefore no way out. The aching discomfort pushed at me until I could not, was unable, to bear it any longer. I had told her that I would die; I wasn't lying. At the moment is seemed genuinely dramatic to affirm that a broken heart would be the cause of my demise but truth be told now that I was here, contemplating the where and when my end would occur, I couldn't be sure. I didn't feel anything, only a dizziness that grew as each moment passed. I recognized the familiar, swimming pictures for my brain couldn't function normally any longer, and fell. Or perhaps I sat. I don't know.

A little sparkling object was mocking me at the other room's end. I crept closer to it, just like a cat, just like an animal on all my fours and reached out to touch it. It was soft, had a silky and smooth texture to it and as I picked it, the thing almost folded around my wrist as its two ends fell. A scarf. A simple scarf but not quite. I threw the snake away; its poison was already circulating through my veins and even morphine couldn't make the pain cease. Christine had struck violently the moment she took the sailor lad's hand and half-ran half-paced out of my house. A bitter laugh caught somewhere in the back of my throat and I would have set it free but the irony of the situation made me swallow instead. She was gone. Gone. Gone for good. Until now some part of my delusional mind had stored away some hope; hope that she would come to her senses and rush back before, well, I was nothing more than a carcass. But it had been a long time and as each day passed by I realized more and more how naïve, how stupid and pathetic I was.

The thought that she had left without the dresses I had offered her occurred to me and before I knew it, I was on my feet walking slowly, but with certain energy, to her room. Perhaps I could take one more look at them, imagine that it was she in flesh in blood before me, smiling and giggling. Then I could die in peace, I thought, I really could. Death was some sort of old acquaintance and I had never feared it; it was the thought of leaving alone that terrified me. Anyone, I prayed, let anyone be here with me. Preferably Christine. But no, knowing de Chagny she was probably tucked away in England or southern France. For killing his brother I was not sorry; we both were thieves you see, the youngster and I. He had stolen Christine from me so it was only fair that I take something dear from him in return. Anyway, the count was no good man, he had no family and probably didn't want to start one and kept giving young innocent girls from the ballet corps hopes of bright future. He was better gone.

There they were, before my very eyes and hesitantly I touched first the grey dress, then the red until everything became a disarray of colors before my eyes. They were soft but not warm; I longed for warmth, the warmth that only Christine could offer. Finally, I settled for the pastel one for it reminded me of her skin somewhat. And then I collapsed again. It didn't bother me, not really because on this very carpet Christine had walked and her bed was so close I could touch it. I shivered. She had slept in there, under a pile of blankets because it was so awfully damp and cold down here and she constantly was freezing. I had been only too glad to comply when she did make little demands for it fueled my imagination and desire for a simpler, normal life. Wives asked their husbands for this. Well, probably men replied differently by slipping under the blankets with them but then again I was the Opera Ghost and not your usual gentleman. Surely this occupation required a whole other etiquette.

Her sheets were tender under my fingers; yes tender, almost as if it was her skin that my hands traced up and down before settling on an especially fleecy spot. Like mad I touched it again and again until the covers had fallen on the floor and I caught grasp of a pillow. Immediately all ministrations were paused as I examined my new possession. Oh, there was something golden on its white surface. A hair, a little strand of Christine's hair. Madness was knocking at the door of my mind and seriously I didn't care whether at this point I was completely crazy or was soon to become it. I stared at it as if it was a relic. I had never been a religious man but for a moment I had found my crucifix. Would I be able to concoct a necklace, a cross of some sort and kept it with me, I wondered. Perhaps, everything was possible. It wasn't very long so I decided to simply wrap it around my finger for now. But it broke. Just like this it broke in half and gasping I reached out to catch the two remaining pieces but as they fell they got lost in the sheets.

The knocking resumed only this time it sounded real and didn't resemble a fragment of my imagination; to those I was used and could quite easily ignore them. For days I had dreamt of Christine and sometimes I could have sworn I saw her before me but as I blinked several times she disappeared. A mirage and though I was not in a desert it still haunted me constantly. It was a wonder that my front door hadn't been destroyed, or rather the lock it bore. In a fit of rage when everyone was gone, I had thrown every single thing I could find against the walls of the house, I destroyed everything I could find but the now my most prized possession that resided in security in Christine's room. My fingers were numb; how I managed to open the door I do not know but after a long moment the distinctive mechanical sound was heard and I stepped back. On the porch – if you can call it that way- was Daroga which didn't surprise me. What did was the expression upon his flawless but aged face. He had smooth features that I, evidently, envied. Craziness kicked in and I began laughing. Wrinkles had already attacked him – woe ! Me such fate would never meet.

"Erik," He breathed, "You are alive."

I laughed harder and this time it hurt. His eyes widened as I kept cackling until my voice grew hoarse, until there was no more air left in my lungs and I was forced to keep quiet. But my face was unmasked and the smile had not disappeared. Daroga stared at those thin lips of mine with apparent confusion, as if unsure of how to react. He had seen my face but unlikely Christine he couldn't lie and pretend that it didn't matter any longer.

"No, dear friend." I creased up. "I am, I indeed am ! How sad is that ? You – and how perfect you are, Daroga ! – suffer from chest pain while I, nothing more than a corpse, really, delight in living longer ! How unfair is that, Daroga, come, tell me. Go on, Daroga !"

"Cease this madness at once, Erik." He ordered, stepping inside.

"Madness !" I shouted. "You know nothing of madness, you blind, deaf fool. No man knows real madness unless it is me ! Would you like to trade places for a day ?" I leaned in and once his breathe could be felt upon my bare face he turned away, preferring to face the wall. "Ah," I tutted, "And so 'no' is the answer."

"You truly have gone mad." He whispered. "What are you doing with Christine Daaé's gown ?"

Looking down I noticed that I still was clutching the dress, tearing the fabric. But she had left it – in my house. By all means it was mine to possess. If it was to be the last memory of her, something to sustain me, then I was more than glad to accept it.

"It does not concern you." I snapped. "She left. She is gone, Daroga, she is gone. The Opera House is mine. Every piece of furniture in its walls is mine. Every piece of paper. Christine was mine. She was, but I let her go."

I'm not sure if he made sense of my rambling; really, I myself couldn't understand this desperate monologue of a madman. Slowly, I turned around and now everything was truly spinning. I couldn't tell whether that chair over there had fallen or was still in place. Dear, even the carpet seemed to be moving, as if swimming. I attempted to walk but didn't succeed in it and had to lean on the wall. After a few moments and questions from the Daroga I came to my senses.

"Out of my way." I ordered.

He called my behavior madness. The real madness and drollery here was the fact that I was still able to walk and had not yet collapsed dead. He followed me; I couldn't see him for everything suddenly became blurry and so unstable, but his voice was very present indeed. It was like the conscience I never had that finally decided to take its place on my right shoulder. Yes, Daroga's voice fitted the role. The door to my study was open and to that I was grateful because for the life of me I didn't know where I had thrown the key to it. If it had been locked I would have made a compromise and broke it. Come to think of it, it wasn't much of a compromise. It didn't really matter.

Ah yes, here it was, the bureau with the syringes and the morphine but as much as I desired to be free of pain, I knew this couldn't be achieved with the aid of the drug. Heartache could never be cured by weak, human remedies.

"Erik, what in Allah's name are you doing !" The Daroga shouted somewhere from the side.

His hand fell in my shoulder and I shrugged it off with more violence than intended.

"Out of my way !" I roared back once more.

Vial after vial fell upon the floor. On some I stepped, other my feet bypassed. I didn't feel anything but surely my shoes were by now damaged. The Daroga, that annoying fly, kept screaming, demanding that I explain myself and I howled back some nonsense. At one point he seized my wrist; it wasn't a violent gesture, merely a way to gain my attention but at this point I didn't care who was by my side and so I hit him. He stumbled backwards and when his hands fell down I noticed a thick trail of blood running from his nose. Ah. It was broken.

"Is it painful ?" I asked, pausing in my ministrations. The time seemed to stop as he nodded, unsure as of where I was heading. "I wouldn't know, I don't have one." And with this I began chuckling again.

After a while however I finally found what both my body and soul desired so adamantly. It didn't require a syringe and I smiled in appreciation. Sometimes, just sometimes, very rarely, fortune grinned down even at me.

"Here you are." I crooned. "I've been searching for you, you know. Naughty thing."

"Erik, what is, what is that you are holding ?" The Daroga attempted to take the vial away from me but quickly I stalked away, knocking the table over.

Staring down at it, I giggled like a child. "Poison." I murmured, and then more loudly in a lyrical voice ; "Poison. It is poison. One uses it to kill rats and there can be many and different sorts of rats, Daroga. There are animals and men…some particularly nasty beings you do not wish to invite over for a cup of tea."

Something strange then happened. Either the Daroga managed to move the bureau out of the way very quickly or jumped over it. The point being, when I closed my eyes and opened them again the vial had disappeared. Confused, I looked around the room until I finally decided that it couldn't have vanished by itself and that Daroga was behind it.

"Give it back." I said very quietly. "Now, Daroga, now. I want it now."

"You cannot take your own life." He answered as softly.

"And why ever not ?"

He gave a great sigh. "It is Allah's to possess, he bestowed this precious gift upon us and it is the most great present of all. It is for him to give life as is it is to give death."

This talk of religion bored me as much as it infuriated. My hands were aching with the need to crack his neck, to exercise that exquisite pressure around it until his eyes lost their color and became as dull as a doll's. But this was not to be. I wasn't stupid; I knew he could overpower me at any minute given my condition.

"You've came to see if I was death." I stated. "I am not. And if it is what you want, get the Hell out of here, Daroga, and let me finish this."

He shook his head almost sadly. "I came because I wanted you to do something right. Let _there_ be better than _here_."

It didn't matter. It really didn't. It didn't matter. It didn't matter. I had many poisons; this was the one that killed in almost an instant. I could always drink some after the fool was gone.

"Please, Erik." He implied. "Do not let it be your last sin."

"Fine." I snapped. "I won't. Go away. Leave me."

"You are lying."

"How clever of you."

And then we were interrupted.

* * *

My hand was around his throat before I knew it though it probably didn't do much damage. God, I could feel myself trembling. From what I didn't know.

"Who did you brought along ?" I hissed. "Tell me Daroga ! Go on, confess ! How would you like to start ? Forget me father for I have sinned: I've led the police down here. Please, tell me that ! Oh, but do call me Erik, we've known each other for a long time now !"

"No one. I've come alone unless someone followed me." He replied very quietly.

If I knew something about the Daroga it was that the man wasn't a good liar. Oh, he acquired the knowledge from me and used for personal goals, but I could always tell when he was speaking the truth and when he wasn't. From the study the front door could not be seen but his eyes wandered in its direction as did mine a moment later. Fine. Let it be the police. My hand left his throat and I kneeled at the bureau's level, searching for a drawer. I opened one after another, unable to remain where exactly the revolver was and when I found it, I clutched it so fiercely my hand became even whiter because of the lack of blood.

"Erik-" He began but I cut him off.

"Pray, Daroga," I spat viciously, "For if it is the Police indeed the first bullet is yours, the four other for those innocents and the last one shall find home in my chest."

He was silent as we walked to the door and only his ragged breathing could be heard. Once near I pressed the handgun mockingly against his shoulder and with a court nod invited him to answer. He hesitated, oh how he hesitated, how his mouth opened and closed but in the end a sound came out, a choke, and his hand came to rest against the metal.

"Yes ?"

What a queer thing to ask when opening _my_ door. No one has ever come down here save the rats and, well, Daroga, who I guess could be compared to one, always sneaking around. A cry was heard and then a voice followed.

The revolver hit the floor.

"Monsieur the Persian, it is you ! You must open the door. Erik, is he in there ? Is he all right ?"

The pain kicked in more furiously than before and my face grew hot. Nothing was heard but the sound of my own heart pumping blood. I walked away as if in a trance, only vaguely aware that the Daroga was speaking, answering questions and oh Lord, unlocking the door. For it wasn't really closed and the clever man figured out how the mechanism worked. I would have to fix that, I thought. Christine. Christine, my mind screamed, Christine was here. Christine was asking if I was all right. Oh dear, dear girl, how could I be when you're away ? Where was de Chagny ? His voice couldn't be heard and the more I listened the more I understood that Christine was on her own.

Her voice trembled as she spoke. She was probably crying; her tone had this hysterical edge only when she was crying.

"Monsieur, you must tell me the truth." She pled. "Tell me, is he alive ? The announcement in Époque has not been posted and so I wondered…"

Minx. Lying, deceitful minx. Ungrateful brat. Spoiled child. She was allowed to hate me, loathe even, fear my name and memory but wish death ! I thought she was better than everyone, that it was she the Angel from Heaven and not my pitiful self. So this was why she was here. She merely came to inquire whether the monster was still breathing the same air as she. Was she thinking that I would resurface and jeopardize her happiness with the Vicomte ?

"Mademoiselle, or is it Madame now ?" The Daroga inquired.

"No, no, I am unmarried still." Ah. Still. Well, that would happen soon enough, now wouldn't it? "Please answer me."

"Mademoiselle Daaé, Erik is alive."

There was a short moment of silence and then something fell on the floor. A second later I realized that the something was Christine and that she was sobbing, crying her eyes out while the Daroga kneeled by her side and tried to cheer the poor girl.

"I thought he died, I thought he died…" She repeated as if possessed. "Oh dear God, thank you, thank you. I couldn't bear it Monsieur, it is entirely my fault, I don't know what to do."

"You should go back to your fiancé, Mademoiselle." He said gently, wiping the blood from his face. "Everything is over now, you can live happily."

Something occurred to me then. She came back. She wasn't a mirage or a hallucination, the Persian could see her as well as I did and I wasn't dreaming. She came back. She came back and was crying in gratefulness that the monster that I was, was still living. Oh my girl, my good, good girl. She decided to come back. It had to be it; I couldn't accept any other truth. Before I realized it, I went back.

Her little form was crouched on the ground as she wiped tears away with the sleeve of her dress. The Daroga was now up, offering her his hands. I said nothing; I did nothing even though he begged me with his eyes to leave before she saw me. His glance was intense but I ignored it. She stopped crying and opened her eyes. Immediately, Christine froze. The perfect statue. As white as snow, as delicate as porcelain. Her blue orbs locked on my shoes and it took what seemed an eternity for them to go up, to meet mine and then she stopped moving again. Her lower lip trembled and I knew what would follow: a fresh flow of tears.

Before it occurred I crept closer, like a cat waiting for its master caress, and extended my own hands to her. She took them but didn't rise and so I had to come down to her level.

"You are alive." She murmured as if it was a prayer. "Erik, you are alive."

"I am alive." I confirmed. "_Christine_."

And then I wasn't in control of my own body any more. Before I never allowed myself to touch her for the simple reason that she didn't like the cold of my skin. It scared her. I didn't blame her though, nobody has ever did. But now I wasn't master of myself and my hands tangled in her hair, those blond locks flowing through my fingers like water and I enjoyed their silkiness because there was no one to stop me, because she wasn't protesting. I touched her face, traced her cheeks and neck, my hands finally to come rest at the base of her neck. She shivered but I ignored it.

"I felt so guilty, so very guilty…I didn't know what to do, everything seemed so horrible…it is all my fault…" She stuttered.

It didn't matter anymore.

I spoke my thoughts aloud. "It doesn't matter because you are here. You've come back to me, Christine." She looked into my face, my maskless face and smiled ! She was smiling ! But tears filled her eyes and she began weeping again.

I didn't understand. She was crying loudly now, her whole body shaken by violent sobs.

"Erik…" She whispered, reaching for my hands which I offered all-too gladly. Her skin felt like Heaven. "It is not that…I simply had to know. You understand, don't you ? I don't want you to die…But I'm still engaged to Raoul, I love Raoul, I will marry him in a month."

In mere minutes I resurrected and died. I thought that betrayal hurt the most – no, it is, as I had discovered, false dreams. Hope. Of course. _Of course_. I looked at her hands. She was wearing a simple wedding band. It didn't seem like much but it shone with expensiveness. Around her pale neck was a collier I had never seen before and it bore the de Chagny's initials.

"Erik," I heard her whisper, "Erik, please look at me."

My hands let go of hers almost immediately, as if they had burned my flesh. In the corner of my eyes I saw the handgun. The Persian saw it too and understanding what I was about to do, attempted to kick it and send it fly away but I took hold of it faster.

"Erik !" Christine cried. "Erik what are you doing !"

But I ignored her and got up on my feet. The gun I pointed in the Persian's direction; he gave me a queer expression.

"Leave." I ordered.

"What are you going to do, Erik ?" Christine's voice was terrified. Not once did her eyes leave the revolver that I held.

I laughed. "The Époque will finally have some news to publish." The joke being said she gasped and began the 'don't die, I don't want you to die, Erik' ramble. I paid no heed to her. I gesture to the door. "Leave. Now. I don't want to see you again."

"Erik, don't be foolish." Daroga extended his hand and it was then that I fired.

Christine's scream hurt my ears, and probably her throat too. The poor girl probably thought I had killed the Daroga. But no, this was a control shot, in the carpet on the floor. However it was enough. I was mad, I was desperate, I was not myself. My hands were shaking and if I was to fire again the bullet had many chances to hit either Christine or the Daroga. He understood that and shoved her behind himself.

"Please, Erik." He said softly, his eyes on the pistol.

"Now !" I roared in return.

He pushed a crying Christine outside, blocking the path back to me for she indeed tried to return. I locked the door but her cries kept ringing in my ears – mostly because I still could hear her. The shaking began again and this time I couldn't, I really couldn't, manage to stand any longer and slid down the wall until I was on the cold floor. It felt somewhat good.

"He can't die, Monsieur !" The echo came at me again and again, hurting a little bit more each time. But yes Christine, even angels die.


	2. Chapter 2

I'm tired of apologizing about a chapter's length and so I won't. I never intended for the first chapter to go on for eight pages. This one has only five. I've always intended for this fic to have short chapters and it will stay this way, because sincerely I doubt it will be a long one.

Now, I hate writing the 'a year later, a month later, an hour and five minutes' later thing, but I had to do it in this chapter. It isn't noticeable but I warn you.

This Erik is mad. Crazy if you want. He is mad. Dot. He isn't reasonable or sane so if there are things you find strange or are uncomfortable with, well…I've warned you again.

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**Chapter 2**

I wasn't dead. Not yet, not quite. But it felt that way. As I stared into space nothing occurred. I don't know why I was expecting a tentative knock on the door, her voice whispering my name, inquiring if she could please come in. "_I'm still engaged to Raoul, I love Raoul, I will marry him in a month." _The pistol suggested its usual idea and for once I shook my head.

"Perhaps later." I offered. It seemed to be mocking me still. "Later. Just let me think."

Of what I couldn't be certain. My mind had always been my personal harbor of peace, the place where all dreams came true if only for a short while. But even now as I closed my eyes, the memory of her face refused stubbornly to disappear. I wondered if death felt that way; a horrid emptiness laced with pain. It's horrible to realize that you are to be alone on your last hour while there's someone you love more than anything – clichés be damned ! – somewhere outside, somewhere where she is happy and with someone she loves. Someone who isn't you. Not me.

Christine thought otherwise, but I did have a mirror when she arrived. It served to bring me back to earth whenever I felt too hopeful. Once she allowed me to hold her hands and when she was asleep I wept bitterly, the contrast between her kindness and fright being too much to handle. I had been content then, so much I went out to buy some gifts for her though she accepted them with a strait line upon her lips instead of a smile. It made me think that day and I went to see the mirror, my own personal jury, as if awaiting a verdict that indeed did come. I had to stop imagining things, it never did any good.

I needed that glass awfully now, but there was no use in searching for I knew that it surely had been destroyed by my enraged self days ago. Everything in the house had been except Christine's room which had lately become a place of worship. Still I couldn't find the strength to creep in there and await death. I was scared. I was frightened. And for once in my life I wasn't ashamed of admitting it, if only to myself. Finally I understood the look that had grazed my victims' faces when it was clear that another breath would not come. It was more than distress before the pain; it was terror in its purest form. I trembled and I sobbed and at some point I even cried because no matter where I looked everything reminded me of her. Even such a silly thing as a book bore a certain memory of my Christine who no longer was in my possession. It was my house yet she seemed to be the owner. I had pleaded and I had spoken threats but in the end it was her lover's life that made her grasp the brass figurine and turn it to the left. Not love as I had foolishly hoped not even some little trace of affection.

And now her voice rang in my ears. _"You are alive."_ No, Christine. A body not yet devoured by worms didn't mean that I was a living being; it was you who assured that. And now that she was gone there was no point in fighting any longer. The pastel dress decided to join the revolver's resistance and now was across the room with its new friend. It was if even a thing of Christine's refused to be touched by me. Well, perhaps it was fair enough. I attempted to stand for it was time to finally put an end to this madness. The final act had been performed, the curtain fell and a tragedy had occurred. Just like in a good Opera. Othello had strangled his wife, Faust had lost his Marguerite and Erik had let his Christine go. It was terribly ironic that my life could be compared to an Opera, a true piece of art, a beautiful composition. Somewhere in between the lines there had to be an explanation. But I've always loved literature and hadn't learned to read a page in a brief moment only to get the general idea of what the novella was about. I rejoiced in details because they were what added colors and God only knew how I lacked those.

For once I was ready to give everything only to understand. Christine had blind faith in what I was capable of and sometimes it seemed as if nature itself obeyed my word, but really, I wasn't lying when I said that I was no more than a man, not a divine creature, even my power was limited. Had I been a magician from one of those childish fairytales books I would have been able to make her heart perform a double turn in my direction; but life was a cruel friend indeed and so there was no use in dreaming of what could have been no matter how good it felt. It shamed me to admit it, but I couldn't even remember what the outside looked like. Oh, I went upstairs regularly while Christine was residing with me, but those were quick walks to the market early in the morning and equally fast returns to my underground lair. I hadn't paid much attention to what surrounded me, the scarf and pale mask barely covering my face. It is a common nonsense that only kids are mean to each other for they are so innocent at that young age and do not understand their deeds. Adults are no better, but on that I will not dwell. The point being I learned my lesson and didn't take a chance with any member of today's society, no matter how noble they appeared. Nobility isn't only a caste; it's a state of mind also and so little could affirm they shared the idea of everyone being equal.

There was a need nudging me in the ribs like an old friend to whom everything was permitted. I wanted to see the outside a last time. I didn't hate it, the sky was a beautiful thing, the grass could be pleasant to the touch and of the air I will not talk for it probably was the closest taste of Heaven I've ever had before meeting my Christine. I hated people; not nature. If Christine had stayed I would have done anything, I would have bought a house for her, I would have planted roses. My love for her was irrational and not sane. There had been a man in Persia once who wasn't afraid to speak to me, he held an exhaled position at court and was one of the few who could walk around the palace without fearing a blade slice his throat open. At me he looked as if I was an amusement of some sort, a rare pet that no one had yet acquired and he was the first to tame.

"_You are like Majnun, __only so much more handsome." He had said with a barely concealed grin, "I hope you won't ever love a woman if so I pity her."_

It was as if he looked into the future. She married another and I became mad. Well, that was to be expected, I've never met the standards of the actual world and so could not be considered normal no matter how hard I wished for the contrary. I gave a look to the door. For some reason I couldn't make myself move away from it. She had banged her fists against it and not to get out ! She had tried to get to me but not for the reason I most desired. I could have shot the Persian – remorse wouldn't have haunted me at night - and forced her to stay, make a new wedding dress and veil and God knew I was close to it, I would have done it but the mention of her love for the Vicomte undid me. She loved him and not me. The poor child deserved to be happy after everything that had happened to her. But naturally the other question surfaced; and me, was I undeserving of happiness ? If God indeed was our father and loved us equally weren't we all supposed to bask in his bliss and glory ? And if it was the case then this God was a cruel one and peace did not exist.

If I lock the door she won't be able to come back and burry me, I thought. Once my body would be nothing more than a cushion of flesh and bone she wouldn't have to fear me; until then the ring would stay on her finger. But then it hit me and I buried my face in my hands and began to shake like a dog left in the rain. I had told her to come to me when I would die and until then she was to remain mine by not removing the wedding bang I had presented her with. "_I'm still engaged to Raoul, I love Raoul, I will marry him in a month."_ In a month. She was more impatient for me to leave than what I had expected. I had given her everything ! I would have given even more, but she chose to flee instead.

The noise was unbearable.

I was mad, I was quite mad and now I finally understood what it really represented. By all logics there was no living being down here but me, still I heard noise. The dress, the pistol, all her previous possessions laughed at me. You monster, you beast, they seemed to be saying, you've lost. I shook my head. I knew and came to accept it but they still refused to be silent.

"Stop." I whispered and the echo of my own voice surprised me. It was now hoarse, had a metallic edge to it and my throat felt horribly dry.

The tension grew until I could not bear it any longer and got up to my feet. I swayed and almost collapsed but the wall kept me up. Around the door handle my hand curled like a snake around its prey's neck and I twisted it madly. The counterweights were damaged and had I had the will and strength I would have fixed them but there was no use for it now. The door had always been there so Christine wouldn't escape but in the end I was the one to open it and allow her to run. But as I stared into the blackness I found myself unable to make another step. I wanted to see the sky but what if it was morning ? I didn't even have my mask. But on some level I felt relief wash over me. Maybe it was better this way. I sat back down.

* * *

Paris is a coffin, but even in a pine box there is air. It carries aromas, sounds and sometimes news. It had been a mistake to venture out but everyone needs a last glimpse of what could have been. It had happened to me so often that I've lost count of the times I used to imagine how things could have turned out, what Christine's reaction would have been, how she would have loved me. Hope is a good thing when there is a goal you wish to reach, however it can be as deadly as it can be blissful when one's illusions have already shattered. This foul place which used to be my home now rivalled a graveyard in memories and suddenly I understood something. I didn't want to die here, it was too painful.

But there were phases to that feeling and then I didn't want to die at all.

I had ventured out in the end; oh not _completely_ out, just enough to see whatever was behind the rue Scribe gate. It was night, proof that my mind hadn't failed me just yet and I could still make basic calculus. In the first few days I had felt someone standing behind me, following me, a heavy hand placed on my left shoulder; the one of sin. Yet until now I had welcomed it with a certain enthusiasm for it meant that soon there would be no pain. But it all had changed in what seemed a moment and I was left alone with confusion. It became my partner in the clever game of words and we shared many interesting conversations. Some wine and bread I found in the house but it was disgustingly ironic how the flesh and blood of the Christ were to save me when I did not have faith and I almost threw them away. But dizziness, weakness and simple fatigue kicked in and I was forced to swallow the supplies emotionlessly. There was no pleasure in food when you could barely taste it. Lack of a proper nose, I presume.

"It really is a pity, that the promise had not been kept." When no answer followed I merely grinned. I didn't expect one, but sometimes it seemed as if a light whisper tried desperately to be heard and so I didn't speak for a moment. "I gave him the gold of Constantinople and the jewels of England and while they are still in a case of velvet, it is he who had been the thief from the very beginning."

On some level I was even madder than before but all that stopped mattering for there it was, just before my eyes, the piece of paper that proved that someone had been wrong all along and that it wasn't me. I had been wrong to trust him.

"And so you see," I explained to the silence who bowed courtly, bidding me to continue, "There really was no use in throwing a tantrum, such a childish act it is. Ah, but she still is but a child. The paradox is absent."

The coughing began some days ago at the back of my throat and sometimes it felt as if my vocal cords were sore, raw, or simply devoured by fire. But really, this was to be expected if not sooner then later. Living under the Opera Garnier never did anyone any good.

* * *

We stared at each other for a moment. Truly, it wouldn't have bothered me to break the silence but he simply didn't seem ready. His fingers created a steady rhythm, running as they were upon the table's surface and he turned away. The mask was present, why was he shying from my eyes, I wondered, but it was of no importance.

"How did you come to know ?" He finally asked and his voice was quiet, unsure.

"Faith." I grinned. His humour didn't match mine, not in colour, not in tone or precision and I was forced to translate it all in plain language. "The Époque. Those journalists do not know what to publish anymore."

"No," the Daroga whispered, "They indeed do not."

I had sent a boy to fetch him. The lad had been a little, skinny thing and his appearance vaguely reflected my own if not for his face. He wore a mask too, but his was made of dirt and not porcelain and blood. For a franc those youngsters were ready to spit in the creator's face, no matter how religious their mothers were, and I often took advantage of it. He didn't question my visage, only eyed me curiously and then was gone.

"It has been three months since Faust." And though his demeanour was calm, it was his voice that betrayed him; a trembling edge, a tremulous sigh it had. "It is a tragedy. Who would have guessed ?"

Oh, but he was loosing his colouring and gone was the spark I once grew used to observe in his eyes. Now they were dull and lifeless, two perfect chestnuts made of glass. Before his walking cane accompanied him only to parks, now however it had become his dearest companion and the two were inseparable. His weakness came to be my friend and we often interacted when the Daroga wasn't listening.

"What do you want from me ?" He demanded to know. "I shan't help you anymore, Erik. Once had been enough."

"I need a word, a simple word, one that will either condemn or free me." I answered truthfully. "Give me that word, Daroga; it isn't that difficult, really, it isn't."

In he leaned to me and his breath crashed against the mask like waves on the shore. He was shivering, but not from cold, not even from the damp air and for the first time I couldn't tell what was the emotion that grazed his face. Suddenly he seemed so detached and apathetic and the way he inhaled air was harsh, as though his lungs were unable to store enough of it. Slowly his eyes closed and the silence became even heavier.

"Tell me," I hissed, "Is it true ? Tell me that it isn't a farce or some mockery, tell me Daroga."

The sickness had been eating him for a while now. There were times when he felt hardly anything at all – one of them being that faithful night when he made such a big nuisance of himself – and there were moments like this one. He had bothered to explain how it felt once and though it didn't strike a nerve in me I still could remember it. _"It is as if my bones are breaking one by one."_ I had to make the more out of him while I still could. His hands flew to his face and he hid it from though to be honest, it was for me to do that. Suddenly, for a brief second, we had exchanged places.

"It is real. It happened, Erik, and it's horrible."

I smiled, I tipped my hat to him, I bowed like a gentleman though I was in my own house. I would have danced if I knew how ! And he stared at me between long fingers before allowing his eyes to drop down. He had lost, he knew it, and I preferred it to be this way. I fetched his walking stick. It was a fine thing craved out of wood with a round ending that was easy to the eye and not overdone like some nobleman's. He took it gratefully but didn't spare me a glance as he rose.

"Thank you Daroga. You do know the way out." He nodded but to my amazement didn't move. "Would you like me to escort you ?" I inquired, the irony dripping down my tongue and onto a fresh wound of his.

"You are a sick man for taking advantage of it." The Daroga spat. "You are vile, you haven't changed."

"Oh, I know, Daroga. I know."

I bid him farewell and he took the old issue of the Époque with him. Did he think that my memory would fail me and I wouldn't remember ? How droll. I had craved the article's title on the bureau in my study with a kitchen knife once my epiphany took control and made me madder than I truly was.

_Vicomte'__s body finally found after shipwreck._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

A funny thing it is; the truth. It almost killed me once, now however I was rejoicing in it, bathing in glory and pure, angelic bliss. Possessed, I did nothing for days but read the Époque. There weren't many articles, and their content was the same, but it was what I was after. Confirmation upon conformation. It had to be real; I wasn't ready to accept any other verity. And when there finally was enough courage in me I went out. No matter how utterly disgusting the sight of me was, the mask hid it well and there were places in Paris where even if people stared, they did not ask. As I expected, whispers were in the air, followed by bitter and harsh remarks.

"And now the Swede is left with nothing." A man at my right spat. "The family will not accept her. It really is of no importance that she became a de Chagny for there is no heir and so no way back into their hearts."

Who he was talking to I do not know. I listened, I strained my hearing but no more words passed the fat threshold of his lips. And so I snapped, my face hidden in my hands. Let them think I suffer of the common pain that brings a headache. A hangover perhaps.

"What are you saying?" He rasped.

"The Vicomte is perhaps still alive."

"He is not ! The ship's vestiges were found as were the bodies of those poor fools. They had been warned, they had been ! The weather was disastrous still the captain ordered for the anchor to be lifted."

"And how do you know of those details ? The Époque had none of it."

"I knew the dullard." He sighed, maybe exhaled. The noise was a distinctive one; hard breathing, constricted lungs. I did not turn around. "Oh dear, they had been warned, they had been."

I knew better than anyone how men love to lament about their lives. I myself had not been spared of the disgusting psychological phase during which everyone is wrong but you. At some level I did understand the inner turmoil of the - my eyes quickly inspected his fingers - nobleman, but compassion had never been offered to me and so he would receive none. I would have tipped my hat to him, for it was a simple act of courtesy that each gentleman was to accomplish, but my face was already poorly concealed as it was. Tempting the devil I had tried once and it had not turned out well. But now - now! Either Lucifer was offering me a gift or God his apologies for everything was slowly coming back in places - places that I myself had designed so they would fit my assumptions and assured personal bliss. What did it matter that Christine would cry when I would rejoice over the death of her lover ? Oh, now he bore another title - the one of the late husband. But no more, no more, at last the sailor was out of the way and I was free to roam Paris as I wished. There were no guard dogs to keep me away from her and so the thought of coming near didn't even require contemplation. It was a decision made of steel.

* * *

It was delighting to see the woman dance before my eyes, accomplish every single whim and desire. She opened the door when I requested so; her mouth remained closed when the command had been spoken. For some franks and marks - for she was German - I had gained access to Paradise. And what Paradise it was !

_"Who are you ?" She had asked. "You've never visited Madame before."_

"Ah, mademoiselle, I am here to offer you a deal. Look how young you are, yet yours hands are dry and dirty. Do you not wish others to serve you instead of the other way around ?"

And so she had listened. Hesitantly at first, but in my words she drank until boldness grew and something snapped deeply inside, allowing her to invite me in.

"Madame Valerius is sleeping." She had murmured ever so faintly.

And so the better for me. "What is your name, dear ?"

"Macide." Her voice had faltered. "It is Macide, Monsieur." A trembling, fluttering sigh had betrayed her nervousness. But that was to be expected. "Madame can hardly see, she will not notice you if you are to stay quiet."

"Did her pupil visit lastly ?" I had demanded to know.

"Madame de Chagny is to come to-morrow."

"Very well, then expect me in the morning, Macide."

The next day I found her waiting at the porch, her hands nervously twisting in the folds of the cheap maid dress. Hurriedly, she hushed me inside. The house where Christine had lived was not grand or even lavish. It only vaguely reminded me of a noble estate because of the way the furniture was placed and its quality. There was a study, but its' dusty - and without an ounce of doubt - rusty handle suggested that none had set feet inside for quite a while. Walls were rare and the freshness of the air was unexpected; as was the sound. It was clear no matter where I stood.

"Monsieur, stay on the second floor." Macide breathed. "You will be able to hear Madame from there."

I nodded. Poor fool; she still imagined that my presence here was linked with no other than the blind Valerius. From the sitting room the old woman called.

"Macide, is Christine here ?"

The girl shivered, her skin turned white and she almost pushed me upstairs but thought better.

"No, no, Madame !" She cried. "It was Étienne. He brought _la gazette!_"

"Ah, then you will read it to me later, won't you my dear ?"

"Of course Madame." The little thing trembled, the burden of her lies already heavy and suffocating.

The waiting game began. I walked around, I looked, I drank in the sight of what I believed was Christine's old bedroom. Pastel beige and white. There were some belongings inside a drawer that weren't of hers though she kept them. An old silver chain and a plain ring. Perhaps it was her father's whom she still loved blindly. The man was now a conductor six feet under and for that I was grateful. No journals or scribbled notes, nothing that could have allowed me to violate the sanctuary of her mind was present. But at the moment it didn't really matter. Sinfully I trailed my fingers along the pillars and then, all shame lost, hands along the coverlet of her bed. She hadn't lain here for months but once it did bear her warm body. For the moment it was as close to her as I could be. I've searched the mahogany desk and when a key was required I used the one I had discovered minutes ago. There were ribbons and hairpins, mockeries of jewellery and simply clothes. Those I touched intently. How good it felt. I hadn't allowed myself such proximity since the blasted day when the child came creeping to me before being carried away by the Persian. But finally my waiting was rewarded. From the first floor I heard Macide unlocking the door and inviting someone inside.

"Madame Valerius is waiting for you, Madame Christine." She quickly stammered.

"I do hope she is not sleeping. I would hate to disturb her." Fickle, frail Christine murmured on her own. Her voice was weak and tired, almost strained and I guessed she must have cried intensely since the sailor's demise. But most of all it sounded lost as if she was unsure whether to talk to the wall or the little maid for everything suddenly became one in her misery.

I sat. My fingers dug into the linen of the covers, remembering that once Christine had lain here. From what I gathered she fumbled with her thoughts for nothing was heard for a moment.

Madame Christine. I mused. She was Madame now, but still Christine. No one attached her late husband's name to hers. It was a pity and merely served as a proof that the Swede wasn't taken seriously by anyone. So the better for me. She would be discarded like an old dog whose eyesight failed and could no longer hunt for its masters; Christine served no purpose to the family and so she would be forgotten and tossed apart. How sad, how cruel. How delightful. I imagined her kneeling by the old woman's side for she was a virtuous and respectful girl above all and was hopelessly devoted to the Professor's wife.

"Monsieur Erik."

The whisper was so quiet I barely heard it. Macide's eyes were wide as she glared at me through thick lashes. No, this was not the right word. The German _gawked_ and she spoke her accent fuller on the tongue and to one's ear. I did not get up and so she crept closer. Her hands were trembling.

"If Madame Christine is to come up," She hammered; her voice faltered and rose again only to fall down an octave, "Lock the room. Here is the key, Monsieur, lock the room from the inside. I will tell her that I've lost it."

She dropped it on the desk and fled. I tested it in my palm. Not exactly heavy but not light either. It was a plain iron key that years had been merciful to. It spoke volumes about the flat. Old, well kept, a sort-of budget mansion – or a mockery of it. Another time I would have kept it so I would be able to come back but Christine no longer lived here. But what if she returned ? I swallowed and contemplated the thought. Surely Macide had another one. Without further ado I hid it inside my cloak. But why couldn't I hear her ? I moved closer to the door that the maid had left ajar.

"Oh dear, don't cry, don't cry." Balsam on my aching heart. "Perhaps he is a survivor – there are always a few lucky fellows who escape. And they weren't very far from the Northern Shore, many boats take that route, maybe he's been found." Oh yes, he has been found – inert and cold.

"No, no he hasn't been." The poor darling was trying to sound strong; she broke however almost immediately. I thought I heard her sniff repeatedly. "I don't know what to do. The Opera won't take me back." An interruption. More crying, more sobbing, more meaningless promises of happiness. "And they all hate me Mama. After Count Philippe's death Raoul took his place and they've been kind to me at the wedding ! They offered us flowers and they smiled, they smiled Mama ! But now he's gone and they've made it clear that I'm not welcomed anymore."

The rest I did not understand. I tried to get a hint of where her estate was – strangely enough de Chagny had left a last will and everything went to Christine. However one did not need to be a genie to realize that the world would be turned around so money and papers would return to the family. The house she could keep; it held no historical value, the Vicomte had bought it for him and his young wife.

I ached so. She was mere meters away, I could choose to come down any minute and either woo or carry her away. Either way there was no one to stop me. Who was Macide, who was Madame Valerius ? If their necks had to snap under my hands then so be it – I was totally apathetic towards them and their fate interested me only vaguely and there was a reason to it: Christine. But my own fingers came to seize a wrist of mine to keep me away from her. Not now, later but not now.

Oh dear, not now.

Silence returned and so did reason. The promised wage I dropped in Macide's lap. She was sitting in a chaise lounge, her eyes lost. Quickly they rose to meet mine and she blushed, turning her pretty little face away.

"Thank you, Monsieur Erik."

I nodded. "Where does she live now, Macide ? Tell me."

The shiver began at her shoulder and made its way down to her waist. Ah, it wasn't that cold. But women were such complex creature after all that I didn't pay heed to the gesture. Christine had shivered and trembled and giggled and – cried all the time. I've lost my train of thoughts in a moment.

She gave me the address, said it so quietly I had to physically lean forward in order to hear her.

"It is Madame Christine you are after." Macide stated blankly.

"Indeed."

"I thought-" She stuttered, gulped, froze. "I thought you were interested in Madame Valerius. Her heritage maybe."

"Please, child, I have no interest in that old hag. Oh do not open that little mouth of yours to protest for I say whatever I want. Now take the money and be content. Perhaps I'll call on you again, perhaps I won't. You've been useful, dear, you've been useful."

* * *

The country air was truly different from the one under the Opera – which is to be expected I guess. Had I not promised Christine such a house ? I would have bought a better one, a bigger one were she to stay. But de Chagny had beaten me not only in looks but in that as well. I winced, staring at the creamy walls, at the miniature garden where flowers were beginning to die. Christine was probably busy mourning and so neglected the pretty little roses. What a pity. Ah, but I was finally here and curiosity and irony were stirring within like demons. Bruise my knuckles on the hard wooden door ? Without a doubt de Chagny would like that; he would roll in his grave and cackle. No, he would not witness it. I lifted the walking cane and banged it against the door.

Is life not a beautiful thing ?


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

We danced. It is the most appropriate description that one can place on the act. She stepped back and I seized her wrist. What a little wrist it was; so delicate and fragile. I could break it in a breath, I thought, I could break it and then she would require assistance for eating. It would be a pleasure to offer wine and fruits to her trembling lips. Perhaps I could break both wrists most painfully; she would then find herself obliged to allow me the pleasure of brushing her hair. But then I remembered that it was cruel and above all things I adored Christine, I cherished her every breath and fluttering sigh. Her tongue darted out; it ran across the pinkness of her mouth. Trying to swallow the fright, Christine, I mused, oh don't be frightened dear lass. She cried out and I pushed her inside. It was a curious thing to feel her resisting so much, it almost made annoyance resurface. I had grown to find her petulant tantrums agreeable for it allowed me a much greater psychological inside on her persona. She had never been a closed book, her emotions written all over her pale features, but during those moments of pure desperation she didn't even try to hide them. Oh, and I could touch her too.

"Dismiss the servants." I said to the shaking mess she had become. Such an endearing sight she offered still. "Dismiss them now."

I should have known she wouldn't listen. Christine had established herself as a naughty creature on so many occasions. Her hands, now curled into tight fists, crushed against me with the intention of hurting and though it was her dearest desire, she didn't succeed in it. Absently, I pulled her away, detached from reality, watching all that was happening as if from aside. It was a good method, a useful tactic; it allowed me not to be affected by whatever the girl said or how sad her eyes were.

"How can you be here ?" She screamed. It was the first cry that pierced through the fog of perfect unconsciousness. I looked down at her, so small, so pitiful, and smiled. It served as fuel, as pure oil, to her fire as she burst into tears.

Her nails dug into my skin, left red, sore marks but it had all gone to the background. I could not feel what was not pleasure at her contact, I could not see what wasn't her lovely face, I could not be haunted by any sentiment than unadulterated, wicked joy at having her flushed so boldly against myself. Ah Christine, ah little girl, do not tempt the monster, I wanted to say, do not put your sweaty palms on me for I could choose to return the gesture. Only a little differently. But to that later. I could have shaken the frustration out of her and replace it with obedience or perhaps murmur some delicate words delivered right into her shell of an ear. But I did not because Christine in her conscious state was so much more amusing and, I daresay, alluring.

"Did you not come to me, Christine ? Have you not, Christine, sought me out ? Tell me Christine, that I did not hold your hands in mine so many weeks ago as you cried, tell me that it is a lie." Her hair I smoothed, placed first one long loose lock behind her ear and then another. The arrangement I had created came undone almost immediately, as if I had tried to assemble ribbons together but had forgotten a sewing kit. But still it was lovely. "You are now alone, poor, poor Christine."

She groaned – what a curious sound, coming from her crystal throat – and at once there was a dull ache that I felt. It spread quickly in my shinbone and at once irritation hit full force. Was she still a little girl ? The child I pushed aside so the view of the house would be clearer. Ah, there was a divan; I could very well offer her to sit. Or make her. But first the servants, yes the servants, I did not need witnesses to this crime, one amongst a list of so many others. Surely there was the demon who kept whispering in my ear that it would not be so bad to break a neck or two – practice, you understand – but alas even beings like me were subjected to time. I had aged and what had been a hobby decades ago, now presented itself under the light of an annoying task.

The ultimatum left my lips again and once more she played the role of a rag doll. There are so many things one could do with a rag doll.

"The pistol came to say _bonjour_ to you, Christine." And while it was not a threat to her, she took it that way.

That high squeak, those wide eyes, everything expressed absolute terror as she first fell to her knees and then shakily got up before rushing upstairs. I allowed it. Christine would never jump out of a window. At least not in a heavy skirt. And if she was to make a rope with her bed sheets I would simply walk outside and catch her. It sounded nice, appealing actually. The house was silent except for the few, heated arguments Christine was having with some women. What they were murmuring to each other I could not tell for I paid no heed to it, but after a while I heard footsteps and two young girls along with an old hag came downstairs. The lassies stared while the miss strolled by me directly to the door. Behind them was Christine, her hair as wild as her eyes. I smiled benevolently. It was an endearing sight to behold indeed.

"Surely Monsieur de Chagny had a butler." I said.

She made a step back. I made two forward. The wall met her back. My hands met her waist.

"Francis did not come today." She stuttered.

"Ah. And he will not come tomorrow."

I was aware of nails cutting through my jacket. A little shift to the side, a small adjustment just like that, and without her accord her fingers slid to my shirt. I could feel her better now. Christine squealed but otherwise there were no protestations coming from her.

"Go away." She was frantic. "It was madness that possessed me to come to you months ago, guilt. I do not wish to share my life with you anymore."

"But I do, Christine, very much so."

I kissed her wrists and palms then paused in my tracks to look at her. She really was such an adorable little mess. Did she own a hairbrush; I inquired on a playful note, if so then where was it. Her lips shook – I drank in each trembling of them – as she answered that indeed yes, she had one and précised rather quickly that it was upstairs.

"Then shall we go upstairs ?" I suggested, an offering but not quite one, more of a mockery.

"Upstairs ?" Christine repeated after me.

"Upstairs, my darling." I mouthed back.

There was eagerness in me to see her bedroom. Was it lavish in its simplicity ? Christine had always been fond of normalcy, a thing I so dearly lusted for. Or perhaps the Vicomte had adorned the room with jewels that in no way matched her opaque beauty. But not a kind of finest silk would ever do justice to her. Only I knew what tones flattered her white skin and what was to be avoided. Raoul de Chagny had been an admirer of Christine Daaé, an amateur collector of beauty, while I was the true connoisseur. Under my careful gaze she sat at her vanity and grasped the hairbrush with the same desperation a victim might have while reaching for the gun. I came to stand behind her.

"A tangle here." I murmured. "And another one there."

"Thank you." The breathy, small quiver of air followed my remark.

She had gained in colouring, this I could tell, for her cheeks were now far rosier though the natural sun-kissed blush was beginning to vanish. I wished to run my fingertips along her cheeks to feel their softness but she was already so shaken. Let's not disturb the child any more, I suggested to myself, not now at least.

"The Vicomte drowned." I smiled. It was during those moments that I truly was grateful for the mask. It offered such refuge ! She could not see past it, could not witness the way my lips curled into not quite a grin with an undertone of a grimace. Perhaps Christine would have attempted to slap me had she seen it. It would have been amusing and wondrous. "Little Christine became a widow without knowing the life of a wife."

"Don't say such things !" She cried. "He is alive. He has to be."

"Yes, for what sense would it make if the knight dies after conquering the beast ?"

The comb fell to the floor. I kneeled to retrieve it. However when offered to her it was not taken; it did not matter, not a bit, and, quite content, I made my hands travel down the length of her hair. Taken aback she attempted to stand up but I believe that my fingers dug most painfully into the whiteness of her shoulders for she once more became still.

"Thank you." She uttered. It was her polite way to refuse my touch.

And so my musing continued. I gave life to it, rejoicing in how it flew from my tongue, dripping on a flesh wound like poison, paralyzing yet not killing the prey. Christine winced, Christine cried, but it was not enough for me to cease the madness, to keep it at bay. Let her suffer if only a moment longer, let her suffer it will feel good. And it did for when I grasped her forearms and pulled her out of the chair she fought against me.

"What will you do, Christine Daaé ? What will you do now that there is no one left to protect you ?" My reflections obviously didn't please her. One could find it odd, but Christine had never been a sweetheart of truth.

"I am not a sickly infant !" She screamed. What audacity, had my Christine grown a backbone ? But as quickly she reverted to the sad waif she had been since, without a doubt, de Chagny's death. May his soul rest in peace, I thought, I was so grateful for his departure I could have yelled my triumph at the Opera's roof.

"Yet you do not know how to live on your own. You are alone Christine, accept it. Do you think, even for a moment, that the de Chagny caste will allow you to fuse their name with mud ? For above all things you are a peasant girl, my Christine, and according to them you know nothing and it is such a disgrace. They will forget about you. You will look after your blind guardian and after her death inherit her estate. Perhaps you'll meet some man, but it without a doubt will be a rascal. Did you not notice you seem to attract only real gentlemen ? One is well acquainted with the death while the other chose it as his lover over you."

"Stop !" She pleaded. "Oh, please stop, I cannot bear your madness. Take what you want and go, just go. If it's the ring you want, I will give it back to you gladly, Erik, and then leave me to myself."

She fought with the bang on her finger until her flesh grew pink and finally red, irritated and swollen. I merely looked. No matter if she took it off, I was here to put it back on where it belonged. And what if there was no priest ? My authority was superior. A man of God was only life while I offered death too. And thus I was a more powerful figure. Oh, but she was so lovely, like a child only too womanly to be one. I drank in the sight of her elegant neck and heaving, small bosom. Had the Vicomte enjoyed her already, I wondered. Jealousy was a vile thing, it usually led me to madness and complete blackout. I forced myself not to think, not to imagine, but different pictures defiled through my mind. They had kissed before me in the sitting room when I had set them free. If no shame had been felt then, nothing could have stopped the couple in the privacy of their cottage.

"Come." I said flatly. "Come, Christine."

Her eyes tried to meet mine but she seemed to lack the daring and remained in the chair, trembling.

"What ?" She queried, startled and confused. Lovely, lovely child. "What do you want with me ?"

"Oh my Christine," I sighed and reached for her face. The girl tried to get away, she spat vicious, wicked words and reverted to tears at some point but my hold remained still. I imprisoned her jaw and caressed her temples and cheeks, made my fingers walk along the soft expense of her lips before settling on her neck. "You told me to take what I want. It is what I am doing now."


	5. Chapter 5

Am I….updating? Oh my god, seems like so.

* * *

**Chapter 5**

I concede; it was somewhat amusing to watch her, lost in confusion, wander around the house and sometimes pretend that I was but a memory which had suddenly gained life. When at first she frantically began making her mind known, her comments fell on deaf ears and so I allowed her to speak nonsense for many a moment. Her little hands would grip and twist the lush fabric of her dress, fingernails running up and down the length of the hidden corsage before plunging into the softness of a heavily-concealed thigh. All of this, I observed amusedly.

"You mustn't fret," I told her – but this was as harshly ignored as the rest of my remarks.

Her frenzy was alluring, but unwelcomed.

It was interesting to see – to almost _feel _– her loss of control but most importantly know, delightfully know, that it was mine to twist or put to rest. She gripped the edge of the door as I turned to her, shook her head, and like a little, tempting faerie ran downstairs, to the foyer. Or so I assumed for the entry door had not yet been slammed. And if she did gather courage enough to walk past it, her deceased beau's coachmen – a corrupted beast – had locked the stables and quite simply walked away, not without accepting a modest sum of my offering beforehand.

"Christine, oh Christine," I called after her, "Christine, do come here, my dear."

The spoken endearments, of course, were met with but silence and – _oh joy_ – a tiny gasp. That small exhalation of air guided me further and thus we played the old game of hide and seek. Ah, do not think of Christine as particularly childish or, God forbid, foolish for she is not – she is innocent and painfully sweet, and it is there that lays the difference. The human mind is a peculiar thing which shuts down and pushes away thoughts, emotions, other little things, which hurt. Christine was walking away from me in order to see if she closed her eyes forcefully enough, I would disappear.

Expectations aren't always fulfilled. Ah, but you knew that already, did you not Christine? What is that on your finger? A glittering ring, a mocking promise? Mocking indeed!

I could watch her run for hours – it did after all present an opportunity to stalk behind and open arms wide to catch her – but of it I did grow tired as well. I found her in the lavish drawing room, going through the drawers of some mahogany bureau which clearly was not hers, seeing as she clumsily fumbled with the keys.

"Christine," I lovingly chanted her name. "Come forth, my love."

A lifetime ago, she would have obeyed. A lifetime ago, she would have followed my voice, my beckoning, to the world's end. Either out of fear, silent respect or admiration – it did not matter, she would have come. Now, her pretty frame stilled and she reluctantly gazed upon me. Shoes, waist, chest, throat – her eyes detailed everything they could, prolonging the wait before they absolutely had to meet the mask. Or were it the yellowish orbs that scared her so?

"No," she whispered. "Erik, you do not understand."

"What is that that I do not?" I took a step forward, she took one away. "What is that you are clenching behind your back, _mon amour_?"

Her lower lip trembled, and ardently I wished to calm it. "You pronounced Raoul dead."

I laughed. Had I? Perhaps hearing it from me really had made her realize the truth. I walked towards her, she tried to run, I caught her by the waist, she fought. And so on and so forth. I held her from behind, on hand upon the abdomen the other just below the diaphragm. When she tried to pull away, I pressed a little bit harder, depriving her lungs of air. Soon, she fell into submission – _really_ fell into my arms, and because of wobbling knees, sank to the floor. I softened the shock the cool wood might have inflicted upon her, supported her body, and came to sit right behind her.

She was a doll now, there for my enjoyment. I smoothed her hair and it was so soft and smelled like flowers. In her grief, she had neglected getting out of the house too much and so it was down instead of coiffed into an elegant do. _I adored her so_. I got lost in the feeling of pushing the blond curtain away from pale shoulders. When leaning close enough, I could smell the scent of her skin and when a breath a tad too passionate escaped me and she felt it, I witnessed her shivering.

I assumed she was calmed down at this point for my ministrations were now accepted. You like to be touched, little Christine, my mind mused. Surely her temper tantrum had at last come to a long-awaited end.

"Christine," I crooned, hands running up and down her arms, "what are those documents?" Those documents that were now laying a few centimeters away.

She swayed in my grip, not nearly as entranced as a second ago, and her eyes fell upon the papers too.

"He is only dead if I sign those," she stammered.

Death in absentia. What a lovely finalization to a love story.

She still wasn't fighting though once in a while she would tremble a little too much to my liking.

I lifted her wrist and pressed a warm kiss to it; immediately, she looked down. "My Christine," I breathed, "Christine, Christine, I am sure that you do not wish to upset me."

"Of course not," the old pupil in her replied to her tutor; she furiously shook her head an instant later, when reality hit. "I do not care for your opinion," she stuttered.

"How dearly do you adore, love even, your old caregiver?" I spoke into her hair, pulled her closer, and physically witnessed her response.

"Very much." Perhaps it hadn't been said as eloquently or calmly, but for the sake of it those were her exact words. "I love her very much."

My eyes closed. _I love…very much_. My mind tossed the unnecessary word away and replaced it with one I would have wanted to hear. I seized her shoulders, and pulled her up harshly. Oh, she did try to separate my hands from her body – should I waste time by describing how futile those attempts were?

"You shall sign them then," I told her, collecting the papers from the floor. "You shall sign them, Christine Daae, because if you do not I will take you anyway. The catch, however, is that I might spill some blood, simply to satisfy my hunger for amusement, just before or mayhap a little bit after."

I watched, I made sure her signature appeared everywhere where it had to, made her write a letter for the housekeeper to find the next day – about who to send the affirmation to. She did so unhurriedly, pausing countless times to plead with me, to cry for long minutes, to clench at my coat and promising anything and everything.

"I shall do whatever you desire," she fervently spoke, "but please, oh please, do not make me declare him dead!"

"Are you out of ink? Is it then why you are still not writing?" I would pat her hand then.

"Erik, Erik."

Her fingers caught the collar of my shirt and she used it to help her get up from the chair. That grip, that pull, she was exercising upon me made me bent forward ever so slightly. She stared into my face, her own really white and wet here and there with tears. She slowly untied the mask and trembling, shivering, frightened, leaned closer. I would be lying if I were to say that the contact did nothing. My own breathing grew raged as it did every time she initiated contact – but then she pressed her pretty coral lips to my forehead for a second time and drew away.

She waited and waited for the transformation to take place; for repentance to come.

It did not.

"My love, the same trick never works twice. Now look at my handkerchief."

Were you cackling still de Chagny, when I carried your wife away from the estate you bought for the two of you?


End file.
